The Florist
by Liv Wilder
Summary: One-shot. Early meeting AU. Castle caught her in profile for the first time. She seemed so young, hesitant and slightly unsure of herself, weighed down almost if he were to describe her fully, that writer's itch already in search of a pen to capture such untouched beauty and effortless poise. COMPLETE


_The Florist_

 _"...e_ _ven on the worst days, there's a possibility for joy." – Kate Beckett_

The bell above the door jingled as he made his way into the store. The cool, lush interior was the perfect foil for the frosty air outside. He let his lungs adjust to the loamy warmth, his breath no longer visible in the air. The windows were steamed up on the inside, condensation running in rivulets down the glass as if racing one another to the bottom, leaving track marks wherever they went.

Once he was able to catch his breath and focus his attention on the vast army of flowers all around him, he caught sight of her amidst the foliage: like a dun colored bird in her hues of tan and olive green, not so much drab as classily conservative. She was young and slender, tall for a woman, her chestnut hair cascading down her spine.

Arrested in his own mission, he watched her.

She moved with deft grace, selecting blossoms from the large black buckets, sniffing them occasionally, touching petals with gentle seeking fingers. She placed her choices together and then edited, shuffling the order, matching, adding and subtracting. Finally, she secured a trio that she was happy with and she turned to the waiting florist.

"These, I think," she said, still hesitant about the end result, her nerves caught up in her chest over this thoughtful mélange that no one could ever accuse her of selecting with capricious haste.

She smiled wanly. Castle caught her in profile for the first time. She seemed so young, hesitant and slightly unsure of herself, weighed down almost if he were to describe her fully, that writer's itch already in search of a pen to capture such untouched beauty and effortless poise. Beneath the vacillation there was a determination, too. This young woman had spirit, grit, a spine like flint, and he could tell that this task she had undertaken was something that mattered to her. It mattered deeply. Such a conundrum. And he wanted the story like a mosquito wants blood.

"Wedding bouquet?" Castle enquired, unable to remain silent in his observance any longer. He wanted this attractive stranger to see him, to acknowledge his presence, but in hope of what? If he was right and she was choosing her bridal flowers, then this was a fool's errand. "You've made a beautiful selection," he added to fill the silence despite the call of sanity. He spoke up hoping for the prize of a smile, perhaps. "Subtle color, long lasting, stylish but not overly fussy."

Kate turned at this fulsome speech of approval. She studied him closely. The voice was unfamiliar but the face…

 _"'_ _All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today.'_ Indian proverb," he quoted, hoping it wise-sounding and appropriate.

She watched him impassively amid the sea of color and scents that filled the air around them with vivid colors of their own.

"Wedding?" he repeated, eyebrows raised, hoping to be told "no" for some strange reason he didn't quite understand. "If so, congrats to the lucky guy. I am officially jealous," he blathered on, his nose tickled by the variety of competing fragrances, eyes beginning to water, brain perhaps addled by the sensory overload if one was being especially kind.

The girl - for she was closer to girlhood than he had first imagined now that he could see her properly, late teens or early twenties if he was lucky - spun back in surprise only to stare at him. Her eyes were dark shadows amid a pale oval face with a long aquiline nose and high cheekbones. A mole adorned her left hand side, set in the shadow of her hollow cheek, though it did nothing to despoil her looks, more added to her exotic allure.

Castle persisted in his questioning of her, so fascinated by her enigmatic appeal and his desire to know more that he missed all the warning signs flashing in front of him telling him to stop.

When Kate shook her head at "Wedding?" Castle was bolstered to continue his quest.

"Birthday? Anniversary, maybe? It can't be an apology because no way has someone as pretty as you ever upset someone or let anybody down. Oh, I know, sick friend?" he exclaimed on the back of inspiration, rashly, for how could that ever end well.

Before the young woman could reply or he could blunder on, heedless of the abounding omens, the florist reappeared from her office with a handwritten receipt.

"Miss Beckett, the wreath will be ready Monday," Amy said with a quiet solemnity that made Castle's blood run cold and the hairs beneath his winter scarf stand to attention. "We will deliver it directly to the funeral home as per your instructions." She clasped the young woman's hand between her own and squeezed. "And again, I'm so sorry for your loss. Please pass my condolences on to your father. Your mother was a lovely woman. We will all miss her here," she said with deep sincerity, tears in her eyes.

Castle quickly realized that these were not the pat words of a stranger merely doing her job, but the kindness of someone who had lost a valued member of their local community. These facts would suggest that this girl must be from the neighborhood too. Given the amount his mother spent on flowers, he came in here more than weekly. So how was it possible that he had never seen her before? If he had, he would surely remember.

The mysterious Miss Beckett turned after these final words, her business with the florist complete, while Castle stood dumbstruck and horrified in the middle of the damp, concrete floor surrounded by botanic beauty and abundance. This lavish display of color now seemed to cry out like an obscenity, given the circumstance.

"Funeral," she said to him when they drew level, haltingly, as though trying out the word for the first time. She spoke as if their conversation had been hanging in the air awaiting completion, a layer suspended in space and time.

"Oh."

Castle formed this sound through a choke of dread and embarrassment. To think that he had assumed this grieving young woman was here to choose a bridal bouquet, and that now, whenever she would marry, there would be no mother there to help her prepare for her wedding day. She would once again be choosing flowers alone. His thoughts fled to Alexis as they often did at times of trauma, his child all but motherless herself, and his woe and shame deepened many fold.

"Yeah. My mom," she confirmed with a tight nod. So youthful, her eyes glittering though dry of tears.

"I'm so—"

"Sorry. Yes, everyone is," she said flatly but not unkindly. There was no malice in her words, no reproach for his persistent overstepping.

"I _am_ sorry for your loss," Castle reemphasized, his head bowed, willing her to believe him. "Please accept my…"

But then the bell tinkled above his head and she was gone. Gone as completely as if she had never been.

"Good morning, Mr. Castle," said the florist, appropriately brightening her tone and expression, convincing in the way that only those who see the A to Z of life can be. "Here to collect your mother's opening night bouquet? I have it all ready in the back," she informed him, back to being as cheerful as a sunny day in June.

Castle held up a finger. "Actually…I just remembered something. An errand. I'll come back later, Amy," he promised the befuddled florist. "This afternoon," he called over his shoulder as he bolted for the door.

And then the bell jingled once more as he fled for the street.

He looked right and struck lucky for once in his life. He caught sight of her, long hair swishing from side to side against the back of her parka as she made her way slowly down the sidewalk. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets and her shoulders were slightly hunched, in grief or against the cold, both were equally possible.

" _Miss Beckett!_ Miss Beckett, wait. Please." He called out, moving quickly to follow her through the dot and dab of passersby without thought to how it might look or how desperate he might sound.

At his second cry she slowed and then turned. He caught up with her easily, fit and honed, a regular at the gym on Lafayette to stave off the writer's misery: a thickened middle, hunched spine and a lack of muscle tone from long hours spent toiling over a desk with only cold coffee for nutrition.

When he reached her, words began pouring from his mouth. He needed her to believe him, to absolve him of his terrible guilt. For some reason this desperately mattered to a man known more for his devil-may-care take on life than his unease over what others might think or feel towards him.

"Look, I was an idiot back there. Total idiot. I'm so sorry." He let his hand fall to slap uselessly against his thigh, watching her face for a reaction, waiting to see what additional words he might be required to summon as evidence in the pleading of his case.

Her response was nothing like he could ever have imagined.

"I feel like I know you," she told him, smiling faintly when his jaw went slack. "She was a fan. My mother. She has… _had,_ " she self-corrected with a tiny, scolding frown. "She _had_ all of your books, Mr. Castle."

His hand found its way to his heart and he pressed it against his chest, palm down, fingers splayed. He felt humbled beyond belief. He needed to know this girl, this woman. He wanted to hear her story with a desire bordering on the feverish. "Can I buy you a coffee, Miss Beckett? To apologize for my insensitive behavior? Please say yes," he implored her, the realization dawning on him that he had never wanted anything more.

Time seemed to freeze the air between them, while the city bustled by to escape the frigid January weather. Eventually, he saw her shiver and then that shiver became a nod.

"Thank you. I'd like that," she said, quiet and polite, her cheeks and nose already dusted pink by the cold.

Castle nodded, her absolution better than that handed down by any priest or judge or jury. "No. Thank _you,_ " he stressed, awash with relief and some strange budding hope.

"And it's Kate," she added, thrusting out her slender hand, that spark of confidence back in her hazel-green eyes. "My name…it's Kate."

He took her cool fingers and warmed them with his own and his head filled with thoughts of endings and beginnings, frighteningly powerful possibilities that she would never know. Not now at least. There would be time. Oh, how he prayed that there would come a time.

 _The End_


End file.
